


Inhumane

by oneswhonever



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Delusions, Harassment, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Bondage, Sam Hallucinates, Sensory Deprivation, non-canon elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:19:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2507558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneswhonever/pseuds/oneswhonever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester can handle monsters. Humans - not so much. When he's attacked by a man who injects him with god knows what, he turns to his brother Dean for help. Dean, who doesn't have a clue what's going on, either. When weird things begin to happen and Sam begins to change, the brothers begin to lose hope. Is there anything they can do to help Sam - and can they do it in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in season one, so there is going to be an early occurrence of the angels. Other than that, everything up to that point is canon.

Sam knows there's something wrong the moment he comes to.

His body feels rather heavy, and he notes that he's slumping, which means he isn't laying down. He opens his eyes, with great difficulty - only to be met with darkness. He panics, for a split second, and moves to check his eyes and see if he's gone blind. His fingers twitch, but beyond that, he can't move his arms. They're bound, to what he can only assume are the arms of a chair. He's wearing a short sleeved shirt, and can feel the material that binds his wrists. It's not rope - it's duct tape, wound multiple times over by the way things feel, and it's cutting into his skin. Duct tape is supposed to be a joke, but Sam knows better than to underestimate the power of some good, tight winds. It doesn't help that whoever did this to him clearly didn't stop at just taping him down. Beneath the tape, he could feel a sharp, thin plastic material firmly holding his hands down. Zipties, Sam is pretty sure.

He's also pretty sure that he's been blindfolded, too - even if he's _actually_ gone blind, he's almost certain he has other things to deal with that take priority. His legs are lashed, rather tightly, to the legs of the chair; wooden and straight-backed, he can tell. His torso hasn't been spared, and Sam can feel the tight bindings around his lower abdomen. There's a foul tasting cloth in his mouth, stuffing it full and pressing his tongue down, being held in place by tape. He knows it's been wrapped around his head more than a few times by the way it cuts into his cheeks and sticks his hair to the back and sides of his neck.

Sam stays as calm as he can, but that isn't saying a whole lot. This is a problem. He gave his bonds an experimental tug or two, but he is painfully aware that his efforts are mostly futile. He can't get out on his own, and he begins thinking of alternatives. He can't see, so he isn't sure if there's anything sharp nearby that he could use to cut himself out. When he and Dean used to train with their dad those some years ago, John had told them that in most cases breaking the chair could help you get out of ropes. He isn't sure if it applies to his current situation or not, and he also doesn't know if he _could_ break the chair in his current drowsy state. Even if he were wide awake, he's tightly bound, and if he tipped the chair without managing to break it, he would be even more screwed.

"Sammy."

He hears a voice to his left, and every muscle in his body locks up. It's not a threatening voice, not at all, and that's what gets Sam's heart pounding. That, and the use of the nickname that only his older brother uses. It's only then that he remembers Dean, and it doesn't take long for him to begin panicking after that thought enters his brain. He tilts his head in the direction of the voice.

The Winchesters don't exactly have a clean name, and there could be many people out to hurt him and his brother. Sam has never been directly attacked like this, however, and it was strange that he didn't recognize the voice. He thought that it might just be some random act of violence, but who would target him? More importantly, how did they even know his name, let alone where to find him? If they found him, did that mean they found Dean, as well?

His head was spinning, and he made a muffled noise through his gag - trying to give his unknown assailant some sort of sign that he was alert. He hears a laugh, but it's not really a menacing one. Not even really a laugh, if he thinks about it. It's more so like a chuckle, and Sam can feel shivers racing up and down his spine. It's one of the softest things he has ever heard in his life, and if his heart wasn't pounding before, it's really throbbing now. His hands clench into fists the best that they can, and anxiety controls every fibre of his being.

"Glad to see that you're awake," the voice pipes up again, and Sam feels as if there's bugs crawling underneath his skin. He shivers. "I was beginning to think I may have used a bit too much chloroform. Sorry about that, by the way."

That most definitely captured Sam's attention. He was _chloroformed_? Why the hell was this guy _apologizing_ for it?

"Either way, I suppose you're wondering what's going on. Where you are," the man continues, and there's a distinct shuffling sound to the left. Sam sighs into his gag. Yes, he was bloody wondering. "We're still in Eau Claire, maybe twenty miles or so from your hotel. You probably don't remember much, and that's for the best. That male you're staying with, your brother I assume, has been calling your phone rather erratically."

Most of the pressure seemed to disappear after that. This man clearly wasn't a good assailant if he still had Sam's phone - anyone who knew better would have tossed it in a ditch by this point. His phone had GPS in it - Dean would find him in no time, and he would kick the man's ass. 

However, it also occurs that this man could be a raging psychopath who is going to kill him and is currently just biding his time. He isn't sure which is more likely.

Sam shifts in the chair when he feels something being tied around his upper arm - just above his bicep. It's rubber, and the man ties it tightly. A surge of panic suddenly shakes Sam's body when he realizes it's a tourniquet. He fears that he was right and that this man _does_ have the intention of killing him. He squirms, tries to yank his arm away, but it's not the easiest task considering his bound wrists. It's knotted quickly, and Sam tries not to accept defeat just yet. He begins to move in his chair, trying to tip it back, but he comes to a horrifying realization.

The chair is bolted to the ground.

"I'm not stupid, Sam," there's a hand on his neck all of a sudden - lingering just below the tape, a gentle touch that has the hairs on the back of Sam's neck standing at contact. "I realized that the GPS on your phone is on. I haven't turned it off, either. Your brother is going to find you, of course he is. I'll have been on my way by then - in fact, I'll leave just as soon as this process is done."

The use of the word _process_ sent chills racing up and down Sam's spine. Once more he pulled at his bonds, a bit more furiously than the last time, and the same chuckle came from his assailant. They both knew his struggle was futile. He prays that Dean would get here sooner than this man expected.

The hand is gone, and there's more shuffling - this time, to the right. "My goal is not to hurt you, Sam. I've been working on this for awhile, and I need to see how it works. I'm not trying to target you or anything. It was just random chance that I found you. I would inject it into myself, but if I'm honest, I don't know entirely what it's going to do. If it kills you, well, at least I can keep record of it."

Sam squirms, feeling his heart pounding in his neck. The second the tourniquet was fastened around his arm, he was expecting an injection of some sort, but he didn't expect a mysterious injection that even the administrator didn't know the purpose of. His skin crawls at the thought that this man could very well just be a simple _man_. Maybe not a demon, maybe not a monster of any sort. Sometimes, doing his job, Sam forgot that just regular humans could be fucked up.

That sometimes humans were the scariest monsters of them all.

Jesus, he really wants his brother to find him.

"You've gotten tense," the man states, like it's not obvious. There's a sudden firm grip at his arm, and Sam tries his hardest to shake him away. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. If this stuff doesn't kill you, a ruptured vein will."

Sam wants to beg, wants to plead for his release. He wants to thrash against his bindings and curse and scream. He doesn't do any of that. He just stills, breathes as evenly as he can through his nose, and forces himself to hold still. As much as he doesn't want a suspicious injection circulating through his veins, he also doesn't want to become a vegetable from a potential injury. His last hope is that this man knows how to administrate a shot. He hangs his head in defeat, knowing that there is nothing he can do about it now. He begins to pray again.

He feels the tip of the needle prod at his skin, and it penetrates the surface of his arm. His eyes squeeze shut in spite of the blindfold. He never liked shots as a kid, but this was about a thousand times worse. Almost immediately he feels as though there's been a fire lit underneath his skin, and the gag can't hold back his prolonged whine of pain. He tries to shut up, hide his discomfort, but it's all in vain.

It feels as if the shot is prolonged, like the needle is in his arm for far too long. He's uncomfortable, that's a given, but he knows he can't move. If he does, he might be risking a lot more than what this injection is going to do to him.

"That's nice," the man murmurs, and his voice is far too close to Sam's neck - to the point where he can feel breath on his neck. The needle is removed from his arm, and he still feels the fire. His arm is released, but only for a moment, until he can feel fabric pressing against where the needle had been. A bandage. At least he's considerate, Sam thinks bitterly. "I recommend you don't touch the wound. It may look frightening, but that's normal."

Somehow, Sam doesn't believe him. He grunts, and he can hear the distinct sound of medical tape being unwound and ripped. He feels the man pat it on, securing the bandage down, and he sighs. At the very least, it's over.

"We'll be keeping tabs on you, Sam," the man says, before the shuffling comes from behind him and he hears footsteps. It's only then that he takes into account that it sounds like rather dressy shoes against an industrial surface. "Good luck."

A door opens and closes, and Sam is left alone.

He prays that this won't last long.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was exhausted, his wrists red and raw and hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, when he heard the creak of a door.

He wasn't sure if the exhaustion came from straining against his bonds, or the drug - perhaps both. He didn't even flinch when he heard the door. For all he knew, it could have very well been his assailant. He didn't much care. He was on the verge of dozing off, and even if he was in grave danger, it was taking all of his strength not to fall asleep in the chair. He was terrified of whatever the hell it was circulating through his veins, and if it was the injection that had drained all of his energy, it was completely possible that he would never wake up if he allowed his body to shut down.

His jaw was locking up, and he was being forced to take his deep, tired breaths through his nose. He prayed to any god out there that his nose would not plug up. Not like he was going to live for much longer, was his automatic pessimistic thought. Maybe the drug would kill him, maybe the assailant would come back and finish the job himself. Maybe that was what the door opening had been. His shoulders tensed, but it didn't take very long for them to fall back into place. His head was drooping, and he would be completely slumped over if his binds weren't holding him in place. 

"Dammit."

He heard a low hiss, and then there were footsteps - approaching him rather quickly. It's Dean, he's almost positive, and he tries to make some sort of noise, but his mouth is dry and no noises will escape his throat. But there's movement behind him, hands on him. They start at the blindfold, and it's removed by cautious fingers before being tossed to the side. Sam keeps his eyes squeezed shut. He knows very well that Dean isn't going to hurt him, that he's going to get him out, but it's almost instinctive to keep them shut.

"Sammy," the voice says again, and then he's _sure_ that it's Dean. He grabs the end of the tape on Sam's mouth, and he begins unwinding it, slowly. By the sounds of it, it's more than just a few layers, and Sam tries not to flinch in pain when it starts pulling at his hair. When his lips are free, and he's pretty sure the skin around them is bright red, the cloth in his mouth tumbles out almost on its' own. He can hear Dean take a rather staggered sounding breath. "I got here as fast as I could. Are you okay?"

Sam doesn't reply. His mouth is too dry for him to respond, but even if it wasn't, he doesn't know what he would say. He does open his eyes, but he can't bring himself to look up and look at his brother. Dean doesn't seem to be paying much mind to this, anyhow - he's begun working on the tape on Sam's wrists. He doesn't bother trying to unwind it this time around. Rather, he takes out his pocketknife, and slashes through it. He cuts the ziptie with a quick, harsh slash. He's working quickly, and once he's got Sam's wrists free, he moves onto the waist. Sam would help him, but he can't exactly see straight so he just slumps over, and even more so when the binding on his abdomen is removed.

"No, Sammy," Dean tries, and grabs onto his face. "Gotta sit up for me, yeah? Come on, man."

Sam tries, he really does, but he only continues to slump. His body is too weak, he feels like he's gotten heavier, and he can't hold himself up. He's sweating buckets, and he wishes Dean wouldn't hold his face like that. He feels hot all over, especially under the skin where the shot was administered. He wonders if Dean has noticed the bandage. If he could find his voice, he would tell him about the injection.

Dean sighs, and lets go of his face so he can get to work on the bindings on Sam's ankle. "Sam, buddy - I know that you're probably in pain and even if I don't know exactly what happened, we have to get the hell out of here and I could really use your help."

Sam feels guilty, then, and tries to muster up some of his strength. It works just enough that he can sit up semi-straight, but as soon as the last of the bindings are gone, he feels himself slump forward. Dean is there, and he catches him so he doesn't fall far. Sure, he's the smaller of the two, but not by a whole lot and he can manage carrying Sam's weight. He gets the both of them up, and even if Sam is basically dead weight, he can hold him up relatively well. 

He winds an arm around Sam's abdomen, being relatively careful as he saw just how tight those bindings really were, and gets his brother's arm around his shoulder. He takes a quick look at Sam's face, and his eyes are closed again. _Fuck_. He has no idea what happened, and as much as he wishes he could find out that very second, his priority is getting the both of them to safety. The abandoned warehouse he had been led to was not his ideal location. He needed to get Sam back to the motel, let him rest and eat if he's feeling up to it, and _then_ he would drill him with the questions.

The task at hand, however, was getting him out to the Impala. He wasn't wearing a jacket, only a rather flimsy short-sleeved shirt that he usually wore under his flannels. Dean shuddered - he was wearing a nicely padded jacket, and the harsh Wisconsin winter was incredibly unfriendly on this day in particular. He would give Sammy his jacket, but he can barely keep the kid up while just holding him. His best bet was to just hurry him out to the car.

The task is easier said than done. It's not entirely easy to carry Sam out to the Impala, and especially because his brother evidently can't walk in a straight line. It turns into Dean dragging him along, keeping an arm tight around his waist and trying to keep him upright for the most part.

Sam really is just dead weight at this point, and he's also sweating. Dean doesn't understand why, exactly, because it's below zero and heavily snowing. Yet, Sammy has sweat trickling down his face and practically dripping off his fringe. His shirt has practically been soaked with sweat, and Dean is considerably concerned. He isn't shivering at all - which is odd, because Sam doesn't take well to cold weather and would usually be shivering. It's almost instinct that Dean walks faster. He wants to get Sam to the car as quick as he can. He thinks that, maybe, he should take his brother to the hospital. He looks more sick than he does hurt, honestly.

When he gets his brother into the passenger seat, he cannot be more relieved. He shuts the door behind him, but before getting into the driver's seat, he goes around to the trunk to grab the spare blanket they keep back there - Sam's orders, in case the Impala broke down and they were stuck in the snow with no working heat. Sam may not be shivering, but Dean was not about to take the risk, especially considering his brother's current condition.

Dean got himself into the driver's seat, and took a quick glance at Sam. The brunette had not moved an inch from where he had been set down - save for slumping over the slightest bit, his head hanging. Dean held in a sigh, and leaned over to first click his seat belt in place, before folding up the blanket in his lap. He was unresponsive, his eyes closed, and if Dean didn't know any better, he would say that his brother just died on the spot. 

"Sammy," he keeps his voice quiet, and tries not to get too paranoid when Sam doesn't respond to him. He makes his voice louder. "Sam."

Dean jams his keys into the ignition, and wastes no time in flooring the gas pedal.

He needs to help his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean thought the struggle was over once he carried Sam into their shitty motel room, but quite the contrary.

It occurred to the elder Winchester that he would need to get Sam back into a stable condition before he could really get cracking down on the questions - the most prominent one in his mind was  _what in the fuck actually happened_? However, his younger brother was in anything but a stable condition, and seemed to be on the opposite side of the spectrum when it came to being even moderately okay. So, he had to fix it, somehow. Without knowing what actually happened.

Sam looked dead tired, sprawled out on the bed where Dean had promptly dumped him upon returning to the room. Even if his eyes were closed, he wasn't sleeping - his breaths would be shallower if he were. Sweat continued to gather, and his clothes and hair were just about soaked. He didn't smell like a daisy, exactly, but Dean's concerns lied elsewhere. He was freezing, having just come in from below zero weather and the fact that the heating unit in there room was broken beyond repair, so there was no reason that his brother should be sweating buckets. Every time Dean touched him and his fingers made contact with Sam's skin, he could feel that his skin was hotter than it really ought to be. That was a concern, for he always recalled Sam having skin that was cold to the touch most everyday.

Dean tries to think, but it doesn't work well. He can't concentrate on his whirling thoughts while his brother is lying not ten feet away, looking like he may drop off at any given moment. He should feed Sam, give him some water, get him under the shower. He tries to decide the priority.

Water it is. All they've got to rely on is the tap, but it will have to do. Dean grabs one of the complimentary paper cups, and turns the faucet on - he makes it as cold as he really can, thinking that maybe it would help cool Sam down. The water comes out clear enough, even if it's got a distinct motel-like taste to it, like maybe it isn't the most purified thing there is, but it suffices. He leaves the tap running in his rush to get it over to Sam, as if a couple seconds would make that big of a difference. He doesn't know what they're dealing with, however, and he won't take any chances.

"Alright, buddy," Dean sets the cup on the nightstand, and slides a hand behind Sam's back so that he can get him up. He can't help but to flinch upon feeling that the back of Sam's shirt is warm and wet with sweat, but he ignores it the best that he can so he can prop his brother up. Sam isn't helping him out a lot here, his body keeps slumping and his head seems to not want to stay up, but that's all the more incentive for Dean to get some liquid into his system, just in case dehydration _is_ in the cards. Once Sam is sitting up as straight as he's going to, Dean snatches up the cup again. "Here we go."

He raises the cup to Sam's dry, cracked lips, but his brother doesn't seem to respond to it. It's as much as a concern as it is an agitation. Dean tilts the cup, as much as he dares, and frowns when he sees the thin stream of water rush over Sam's lips and down his chin. He knows this isn't his little brother trying to get on his nerves, but he wishes that it were because that sure as hell beats said little brother being too out of it to drink water. 

Dean doesn't want to do anything that would potentially hurt his brother, but he needs to get some liquid into his system, and fast. He leans in close, their bodies pressed up again one another, so that he can support Sam's weight. He uses the hand that was on his back to reach up and place it at Sam's jaw, easing his mouth open. With the hand that holds the cup, he raises that as well, and places the cup at his brother's waiting lips. Sam doesn't try and drink it, of course, so Dean has to settle with pouring it into his mouth. It isn't a difficult task, in fact it's probably the easiest he's done since freeing Sam of his bonds, but he knows that the struggle isn't over.

He has to get Sam to swallow.

"Okay. We can do this, can't we?" he asks rhetorically, seeing as Sam isn't going to actually respond to him - even though it would admittedly calm Dean's rapid, abnormal heartbeat if he did. He guides Sam back down so that he can be lying down for this, and presses his fingers into his throat. Sam's face contorts, into a seemingly displeased expression, and Dean takes a bit of solace in that. At least he can feel something. "Okay, good sign. Can you hear me, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes begin to look a little less glossy, and Dean presses into the spot a little bit harder, minding himself as his goal isn't to choke his brother. Sam doesn't reply to him, which isn't a big shock, but Dean can hear and see that he's swallowed the water. He allows for a short mental celebration, but he knows that it is far from over. He thinks that maybe he should get Sam to drink a little more, but he decides against it - baby steps, he reminds himself, and sets the water on the nightstand as he relieves the pressure on his brother's throat.

He sighs, and gets up. "Alright, kiddo. How's about we try for a shower?"

He hesitates to leave Sam alone, and inevitably decides against it as he leans down to slide an arm around Sam's abdomen, hoisting his brother up to his unsteady feet. It's less of a distance to the bathroom than what the building was to the Impala no less than an hour ago, so Dean maneuvers more quickly this time around. The motel bathroom isn't really luxurious, but the shower is functional and that's all that Dean cares about at this point. He flicks on the light switch, and it takes a moment or two for the bulb to flicker before the room is dimly illuminated. 

Dean props Sam up against the wall by the sink, watching his brother slump over almost immediately. He ignores it the best that he can, before turning his attention back to the tub. After a prolonged moment, he decides it's probably best to give Sam a bath rather than attempt to force him under a shower head. After an instinctive glance at the younger Winchester, he reaches into the tub and puts the plug in the drain. He pauses before turning on the water, knowing that a cold bath would help to lower Sam's body heat, but if he was sore a warm one would definitely be the way to go. He doesn't know if it's a simple fever, but he's willing to bet against it. If there's anything he remembers from taking care of a sick Sammy as kids, it was that lowering a high body temperature was crucial. He sucks in a breath, and turns on the cold water.

As the tub is filling up with water, Dean turns his attention back to Sam, and advances towards his unresponsive brother. He places his hands at the base of Sam's shirt, and upon looking into his eyes and seeing that they're still glazed over, he tugs it off. He's seem Sam naked plenty of times, most often when they were younger, so it doesn't really phase him when he removes his jeans. He's pleased to find that there aren't really any physical marks on Sam, save for the red rings that had been left behind by the zipties.

However, upon removal of Sam's shirt, Dean took notice of something he hadn't seen before. A bandage, white gauze, wrapped around Sam's upper arm and secured in place by medical tape. He purses his lips, tries to think of just what the hell could have happened, and he can't recall anything. Sam hadn't been injured on their latest hunt, a simple salt and burn, so he shouldn't have any marks on him.

After removing Sam's boxers, he would have to sooner or later, he unwound the gauze. There were no gashes, no bruises - nothing that would suggest that Sam had been hurt too badly. Dean took his arm, being as gentle as he was really capable of, and brought his brother's arm closer to his face so he could get a better look. 

When he looked closely, his stomach turned at the sight of a puncture wound. An injection of some sort, clearly. He doesn't remember the last time they had been to the doctor's, as horrible as that was, so it obviously wasn't a shot of any sort. 

"Sammy," he murmurs, but it's futile because he knows by this point that his brother won't be responding to him anytime soon. "Come on, man."

Nothing. Sam is quiet and limp, sitting slumped over against the wall in the same exact position Dean had placed him in to begin with. His eyes are downcast but they aren't looking at anything - rather, he looks like he's looking _past_ something. It's not a comfort, and especially not when the first thought that pops into Dean's mind is that his little brother is on drugs. It's ridiculous, the Sammy he knows would never touch a substance of any sort, but he can't help but to think that it might be the case. What else could explain his odd behavior and the injection?

He can't focus on that now. He has to take care of Sam, no matter what happened. He sighs and winds his arm around his brother's waist, hoisting him to his feet and leading him over to the tub. Sam is big, a little bit lanky but he's a mess of long legs, and Dean knows that he won't really fit perfectly inside. That doesn't stop him from helping his brother lift his legs over the edge of the tub. He's fairly gentle as he eases Sam to the floor of the bath, having him sit down. He doesn't even react to the temperature of the water, which is fairly cold, and that's a concern. Dean knows damn well that Sam takes boiling hot showers - he always leaves the bathroom with bright red skin and the mirrors are fogged over due to the steam. As a kid, he hated cold baths and would always whine when Dean tried to bathe him, always telling him that he needed to turn up the temperature of the water.

He tries his hardest not to think about it as he grabs a washcloth and lathers it up with the cheap motel soap, getting to work on washing Sam's arms. He's beginning to slump again, so Dean uses his free hand to rest it on his back, holding him up and in place. He tries to ignore the injection as he scrubs his brother's skin as gently as he really can while still being effective. The purpose of the bath was to bring Sam's fever down, but Dean still wants him to be comfortable, especially considering he doesn't know the exact circumstances. Sam could be _really_ hurt, for all he knew. 

Once he's got Sam's arms and legs washed up, facing a bit more difficulty for his legs, he moves onto his hair - which is matted and tangled with sweat. He doesn't really know the best way to go about it, but what he does know is that he certainly doesn't want to risk putting his delirious little brother's head under water for even a second. He knows he wouldn't drown Sam, but he didn't want to take the risk either way.

He decides it's best to just fill up a cup with water and use it, with shampoo, to wash Sam's hair. He never realized before just how much of it the kid had. It was a mess of thick brown locks and Dean found it incredibly difficult to wash. He managed, however - and once Sam's hair an body was completely cleaned up, he lifted him out of the tub, drained the water, and got Sam ready for the rest he hoped his brother would get.

He started by dressing him. He couldn't notice any sweat, and when he touched Sam's skin it didn't feel like he was of abnormal temperature, so Dean doesn't worry much when he puts Sam's clothes on. He gives him some clean boxers, a pair of loose sweats, and a short sleeve shirt that seemed about two sizes too big. He sat Sam on the edge of his bed as he dried his hair off - he was probably being a bit extensive at this point, he had to admit, but he wanted to keep Sam comfortable and he might get cold if he went to bed with wet hair.

_Jesus, Dean - mothering him, much?_

Dean sighs, and turns off the hair dryer when Sam's hair feels dry enough. He pulls back the covers, and helps his brother slide underneath them. He props his head up on the pillows, pulls the covers up to his neck, and turns off every light in the room except for the overhead light over his own bed. He can still see Sam's face, and even if his eyelids are drooping, they won't close. 

Dean needs to help him, and he needs to get advice from the one person who would know how to help better than he would. He takes a glance at Sam, deciding that he's still unresponsive as ever, and whips out his mobile.

While the phone is ringing, he bites into his lower lip in anticipation. It's late, or early depending on how you look at it, and he may not answer. He'd dialed the emergency number, however, which signals that it's pretty crucial that he should answer.

He sighs out in relief when he hears the click of the phone, signaling that he had indeed got an answer. He spoke before the male on the other end of the line could.

"Bobby. I need your help."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was still on the phone, nearly two hours later, flipping through an old book he had dug out from the Impala's trunk, when Sam began to twitch. 

He heard it before he saw it, and with his phone being held in between his cheek and shoulder, his eyes darted over to his younger brother. Sam's eyes were closed, which was about the only good thing that has happened so far - at the very least it meant that he was getting some rest. His face, normally peaceful when he was lost in slumber, was contorted in what seemed to be a pained expression. He twisted about on the bed every so often, his bangs flopping in his eyes and from what it looked like, he was sweating again. Dean watched him, looking for a sign that he would jolt up, but he did not. 

"Dean?" Bobby's voice on the other end of the line cut into the still silence of the room, and Dean's heart skipped a beat. His eyes found their way back to the book, skimming the page he had been on. He almost forgot that they had been doing something. "You alright?"

Dean bit into his lower lip, and dared another look at Sam. His brother's face was still twisted up, but he had stilled for the most part. Dean wasn't sure whether to be frightened or relieved. He marked his place in the book, closed it as quietly as he could, and made his way over to Sam's bedside. Cautiously, he placed his fingers on his little brother's neck, and calmed, if only the slightest bit, when he felt the pulse.

He supposed he knew better than to assume Sam had just died right on the spot, but because he could not be sure, he did what he could do. Silently, his hand grazed Sam's forehead - indeed, he was burning up again. The bath had momentarily soothed his fever, and Dean wondered if he should try again. It might be completely futile. It wasn't like he could keep Sam in the bath forever.

" _Dean_."

"Huh?" the elder Winchester replied, snapping out of his little trance. He kept his eyes trained on Sam's face, watching him carefully for any signs of change in his condition. "Oh, right. Sorry. I'm here."

But just barely, he neglected to add. He was tired, the energy having been completely pulled out of him somewhere between taking care of his brother and looking for anything that could possibly explain his current condition. He and Bobby had both debunked the idea of drugs. He would be fine by now, if drugs were in the books - plus, Sammy wasn't really the type, and especially considering he would never do anything to purposely mess up a job. Honestly, his kid brother having a drug problem would be a hell of a lot less stressful than their current dilemma. There were no signs, no leads, and it was driving Dean right off the edge.

It was silent for a moment after that, and Dean resorted to taking a seat on his brother's bed. Sam didn't even stir as the bed shifted under Dean's weight, which was quite concerning - not that this whole thing in itself wasn't, but Sam was the type who would wake up if he heard a cat meowing outside the door. He should have long since woken up. Dean was beginning to think he couldn't expect that much, however. Sam was dead to the world.

"Right," was Bobby's reply, and Dean could hear him shutting a book with a sigh of exasperation. Sounded like he was getting just as far with research as Dean was. "Well, I've got nothing. Guessing you're just the same. Any change in Sam?"

Dean sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger - a habit that he had taken up whenever he felt a migraine coming on. "I don't know. Not really. He was twitching a little, just a bit ago, and his fever is back up. Still unresponsive."

He heard another sigh, and mimicked it solemnly. They were getting nowhere, and neither was Sam's condition. His brother simply looked as though he were asleep, but Dean was well aware that that was not in the cards. He was acting more like he was in a coma then anything else, and he seemed more ill than he did hurt. He didn't know what exactly was in the cards; he had never seen anything like this in his life.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. I don't know if what's happening to him is compliments of the puncture you found on him or not," another sigh came from Bobby, and Dean felt almost guilty for keeping him up and asking him for help on something that neither of them knew anything about. _Almost_. Sam was his priority, of course. He always was. "I would have to check him out for myself. Maybe call in some extra help. ...You try your old man at all?"

Dean almost laughed, and he would have had he not been stressed as all bloody hell about this whole thing. "He hasn't answered my calls in quite some time, and you know that. Like this would be any different at all."

He got up from his spot on Sam's bed, with a preemptive glance at his brother, before heading off to their kitchenette to start up a cup of tea. He prefers coffee, but the shit that Sam kept in his bag was stronger, and he needed something like that right now. He started up on heating some water, boiling up a pot of it. He knew he was technically doing it wrong, but it would come out with the same effect and that's what he cared about. He kept his ears opened, listening mostly to the sound of Sam's still breathing, as he dug through his brother's bag, in search of the teabags. 

"If Sam is hurt as badly as we're afraid he is, it wouldn't be a bad idea to at least try and give him a ring," Bobby spoke thoughtfully, as Dean fished out the tea. He started back towards the pot of water, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as he did so. He winced, wondering if the older hunter was right about calling his father. John Winchester had been missing in action for awhile now, however, and Dean didn't know if the prospect of a possibly seriously ill Sam would be enough to bring him back. It would have to be. "In the meantime, why don't you get some rest? I'll be to you boys as soon as I can."

Before Dean could protest, tell Bobby that he didn't have to, the line went dead. He sighed, and poured the newly warmed water into a mug that he had taken from Sam's bag, dunking the teabag in. He grabbed the book from the table, set his tea on the nightstand, and settled into his own bed.

He cracked open the book, his demeanor still solemn as he tried, and failed, to focus on his research. 

Not five minutes later Sam was shifting around again. Dean tried to ignore it and tell himself that it was nothing, but curiosity got the best of him and his eyes flicked over to his little brother. Sam's eyes were wide open, his head tipped back and pointed towards the ceiling, where he was staring at absolutely nothing. He was still aside from the rise and fall of his chest, his mouth slightly agape. 

Dean closed the book, and left it sitting on his pillow as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He eyed Sam carefully, not moving from his spot. His brother wasn't moving a muscle, hadn't so much as blinked. Dean didn't dare take his eyes off of him.

All was silent for a couple of moments, before Dean finally whispered, "Sammy?"

It was as if that one word sent Sam into a frenzy. He began to twitch again, flinching as his body began to arch. His movements were minimal, his back never got fully off of the bed, but it was frightening for Dean all the same. He had seen few seizures in his day, an incredibly unpleasant experience, and this didn't seem like that. He sat completely still, his eyes locked on Sam as his brother's movements got a bit more violent, his limbs flailing and jerking.

Dean got up, and took a few hesitant steps closer to his brother. As if that simple movement had sent off some kind of trigger, a low noise that he had never heard in his life rippled from the back of Sam's throat - something between a growl and a sob, by the sounds of it. His expression was pained again, and the thought of whatever was currently happening hurting his brother made his heart clench up in his chest.

He reached out a hand to touch Sam, and almost immediately his little brother let out a sharp cry of what sounded like pain. It was short-lived, but enough to make Dean flinch back, afraid to lay a finger on him. Sam's body was in a spasm as loud, distressed noises escaped his lips. They grew progressively louder, to the point where he was almost screaming. The last thing they needed right now was for a complaint to be made and for them to be checked on by a worker. He tried to hush his brother, and when he realized just how futile his attempts were, Dean decided that he would need to take matters into his own hands. 

He reached over and pinned Sam to his bed by the hip, and used his other hand to clamp a hand over his mouth, muffling the distressed wailing. He didn't want to hurt his brother, that was the very last thing he wanted to do, but they couldn't afford to be caught. Sam's eyes were wide, and even if his eyes were in the direction of Dean, it seemed as if he were looking past him rather than directly at him. 

Sam was just about screaming underneath his hand, jerking and flailing about. Dean's heart was throbbing in his chest, afraid that he would end up having to restrain him. He wouldn't dare, not now because Sam wasn't trying to hurt either one of them, but he would resort to it if need be. Right now, however, all he had to do was keep Sam quiet.

"I've got you, Sam," he murmured, mostly to himself because Sam probably wasn't hearing him anyways. "Not gonna let anything bad happen to you, yeah? Gonna protect you. I always do. Just...just calm down for me, okay?"

These attempts proved futile; most everything Dean was doing was. He just had to let Sam scream and thrash until he tired himself out, and that he did. It took awhile, it was inevitable that it would, but Sam's eyes began to grow heavy and soon his screaming was reduced to whimpers, while his body began to melt back into the mattress. Even still, Dean didn't move until Sam was silent.

He seemed to be resting again, or so Dean hoped. The elder Winchester let out a sigh, and settled into bed with his younger brother - too frightened to leave Sam alone.

He had to call his father. 


End file.
